If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Once before—but that had been different. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. “Now replace the stone, my child. There must be something behind the missioner's actions, something of which the girl knew nothing nor suspected. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo.
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